No title

What you think truth is?
Half-smart writers produce articles and
popular books, but what they know?
In their eyes I don’t feel any poetry.
It’s just blank, fame, or something—no weakness
no genius, no sincerity only a kind of death—

What if today, was the strangest day of
your life, but all the others were exactly the same—
as if the strangeness was well contained,
and none of it spilled out like
emotion is apt to do.

When I was younger I’d play chess
all day long, even when I was supposed to
study; chess is like life, unless you
try to get better, you can play all you want
but you won’t become better—time catches
up with me

If you could live a billion years would
you get insanely bored? Maybe there’s
too much experience there and the human
body is too small, like pumping a whole
power plant’s electricity into one meager
wire: blows out—riches can’t by you a new
case yet.

My girlfriend’s sister accused me of
being proud of my writing, for trying to show
it to people—I told her it was just my way of
saying hello, being absolutely alone in my
soul for so long, I want to leave the
light on for the strange

So much piles on, it piles on like
music and songs played right on top
of each other, and soon you lose track
and can’t hold on anymore: what if my body
disintegrated right now—what if it blew away
into dust: then I’d be a real poet.

lveo:

Barron & Larcher fabric via Bird & Banner

lveo:

Barron & Larcher fabric via Bird & Banner

What if you took all of the naked photos of women on tumblr, and made a video showing one after another, increasing the speed of the change; would, at some speed, there just become apparent a kind of human light?

Maybe, the only way to escape it
is to become a water lily, or a tiny silver perch
and existent in a pond where rich people come by
to take lunch from the nearby offices
They’ll look at you, but they’ll never look, so
it’s always private and protected by their guards:
it’ll be peaceful. In the middle of a summer night
when they’re all at home, and the only thing around
is the silver moon, and the soft cool breezes
you can start on philosophy, and wonder, to yourself
why, if they know what stars are, humans
are so horrible to each other.

todaysdocument:

This animation from Moonwalk One shows all the stages of the Apollo 11 mission, which launched 45 years ago on July 16, 1969.  As designed, the only component to return to Earth was the Command Module Columbia.

Moonwalk One, ca. 1970

From the series: Headquarters’ Films Relating to Aeronautics, 1962 - 1981. Records of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, 1903 - 2006

via Media Matters » Stepping Stones to the Moon

iheartmyart:

Su Sheng Yang & Lin Show Me (Finger and Toe), BOOKS x Re:public /《17》, Client: Re:public Books, 2012, image posted with the permission of the artists.

iheartmyart:

Su Sheng Yang & Lin Show Me (Finger and Toe), BOOKS x Re:public /《17》, Client: Re:public Books, 2012, image posted with the permission of the artists.

Inside you vaults behind vaults open endlessly. You will never be finished.

Tomas Tranströmer

Shouldn’t the fact that, the process is never finished, but is fractal, suggest that what’s important is not the problem, the safe, but the pattern of safes, the pattern of problems: not this moment, but all moments. Or something like that.